Every Step of the Way
by Shi-Toyu
Summary: When John is injured on a case, Sherlock can't forgive himself. Everyone expects him to give up on his flatmate and get bored, but he'll prove them all wrong by sticking with him...every step of the way. Eventual Johnlock


A/N: Glad I finally got around to writing this. It was originally supposed to just be a friendship fic, but my beta told me she would kill me if I did so. I hope you all enjoy this slash fic.

Every Step of the Way

It had been Sherlock's fault, really, and he would never forgive himself for that. Standing by John's bedside at the hospital, staring down at the unconscious doctor, he knew he would spend the rest of his life paying for his mistake. The blonde was far paler than he should have been and it pained Sherlock to see him that way. John was strong and steady, his rock.

It had been several days since the accident, if you could even call it that, and John was still in and out of consciousness. A brace kept him from moving and jarring what they had tried to fix in surgery and he was on enough painkillers that he hadn't yet noticed what was wrong. They were easing off the medication, though, and Sherlock knew it was only a matter of time.

When John awoke, Sherlock would be the one who had to explain to him that the detective had made a horrible miscalculation. He would have to explain how he'd been too caught up in the case, too caught up in catching the suspect. Sherlock would have to explain that he hadn't expected John to follow him across that street, but he should have known better. John always followed him.

The car that had slammed into John had been speeding, and threw the doctor exactly 13.8 meters. The landing had left several lacerations that had required skin grafts, but that wasn't the worst of the trauma. John's body had twisted during the impact and he'd suffered an injury to his L5 vertebrae. There was a 46% chance John Watson would never walk again, and it was Sherlock's fault.

The pain would be excruciating and the physical therapy would go on for years. Even if John were to regain some of his previous motor function, he would never reach the same level of motion. This wasn't some psychosomatic limp Sherlock could just fix by keeping him distracted. It would be grueling and a long-term commitment, not exactly something Sherlock was known for being good with.

This wasn't something he was willing to give up on, though. He would not give up on John. Already, Mycroft was looking into the most advanced treatments available. Money wouldn't be an issue, and neither would access. Sherlock owed John at least that much.

The detective knew that no one expected him to stick around. They expected him to get bored and leave now that John couldn't keep up with him. His mind would run wild and he'd soon be distracted. There'd be a case or something and he would just up and leave. Well, John wouldn't need to follow him anymore because he wasn't going anywhere.

There were a lot of people who believed he didn't appreciate John, didn't appreciate what the doctor did for him, but that couldn't be more untrue. John was the only friend Sherlock had ever had, truly. He made sure the detective ate, rested, paid the bills on time, and performed the basic tasks needed to keep him alive when the brunette was too distracted to care. But none of the things John did for him were so important as simply teaching him to care.

Before John, Sherlock had held a fondness for Mrs. Hudson, but wouldn't have been able to name the emotion, much less express it. He valued Lestrade for his lack of total incompetence, which was more than he could say for the rest of the Yard. Since John had come into his life, though, he'd grown to appreciate both individuals for the roles they played in his routine. Even Molly and Mike Stamford seemed to stand out more in the light John gave off.

And, as much as Sherlock cared for these other individuals, he cared for John all the more. Though he did not brush John aside as unimportant, he did, admittedly, take his presence for granted. He had assumed John would always be there, to have his back.

Well, John had been, at exactly the wrong moment.

The blonde took the news of his affliction surprisingly well, so well that Sherlock kept throwing him suspicious looks. He'd been quiet at first, before taking up his usual mantle of smiles and small talk with his visitors and the hospital staff. He thanked the doctor who showed up to give them more bad news, the corticoid steroids they'd given John for treatment hadn't had any effect. He flirted shamelessly with the nurse who brought his meals and the only question he had asked was where his sister was. (Harriet, upon learning of her brother's accident, had used the excuse to hole up in the nearest pub. Mycroft had people watching her.)

Since their initial talk about what had happened, it had been a constant flow of people in and out of the room. It was hours before the doctor and the detective were alone again. By that time, Sherlock was little more than a bundle of nerves. He felt like crawling out of his skin. How in the world could John act so calm about all this?

The silence stretched between them, not helping Sherlock's twitchiness in the slightest. When John finally did speak, it was in a soft tone of voice.

"You don't have to stay, you know."

"Mycroft has secured me special privileges. I do not have to abide by standard visiting hours."

John smiled sadly.

"I was not talking about the visiting hours…"

It didn't take Sherlock more than a moment to realize what John meant.

"You expect me to leave you…"

John shrugged as best he could with the brace on.

"I'm useless to you now. You don't have to stick around."

Sherlock slowly turned to face him fully.

"John, you know as well as anyone that I am not limited by the expectations of social decorum. I am here because I want to be and you are going to have to do better than that if you want to get rid of me."

He could see the moment his friend realized that the detective planned to see this through to the end, but he also saw the doubt there. Still, John smiled wide enough that it seemed his face would split in half.

"Drat. I was really hoping that would work."

Sherlock cleared out his own bedroom at 221B so that John wouldn't have to deal with the stairs leading up to his room. The detective cleaned up the kitchen, going so far as to get rid of his chemistry equipment. (Or at least moved it upstairs.) He made sure the floor was free of clutter and there was space enough for John's wheelchair to fit between the furniture. When the doctor came home with Mrs. Hudson, everything would be ready for him.

The stairs presented an issue, of course, but Sherlock had seen to that, too. The contractors had been by earlier in the day to install the chair lift along the wall. John would hate it, but it would be necessary. Sherlock was looking forward to the day he would be able to remove it, when John could walk again.

John seemed surprised by the changes to their residence, but took them with the same grace and acceptance that he did everything else. Sherlock didn't miss how his jaw tightened at having to use the lift, but the blonde hid it in an instant with a joke and a smile. He seemed quite amused by Sherlock's pampering.

The pampering didn't go away after that day, though. As it turned out, there were a number of domestic issues that proved quite interesting. The challenge of John's debilitation was enough to keep Sherlock's mind occupied with research and study. Instances where John settled down with a book or to go to sleep for the night would find Sherlock upstairs performing all sorts of experiments. He was determined to find a way to help his friend.

They quickly settled into a routine of sorts, with Sherlock doing most of the cooking and general care for the flat. It was quite a twist of fate, to say the least. John had been home for almost two full weeks by the time Lestrade came barging in to disrupt their little affair. He'd been by to visit, of course, but one look at his face said he meant business this time around.

"Sherlock, we need you. There's been a triple homicide over near Grinitch Pub. We can't make heads or tails of it."

The detective didn't even look up from his computer.

"Sorry, busy."

John gaped at the man from his armchair.

"Busy? You've got nothing on!"

Sherlock shot him a glare.

"_Busy._"

Lestrade raked a hand through his hair. The man was clearly desperate.

"Please, Sherlock, we need you."

"I simply can't."

The blonde doctor rolled his eyes.

"For the love of God, Sherlock, just go."

The brunette's eyes narrowed.

"I'm not leaving you."

"Well, you need to go on this case. You can't just give up detecting because I'm got two bum legs now, instead of one." His expression became framed. "Please, Sherlock, don't make me someone who holds you back."

For a long moment, the consultant just stared at the other man. He hadn't thought John would see it that way, but he likely should have. Finally, he nodded once.

"Fine, but you have to come with me."

Bringing John with him to crime scenes was easier than Sherlock would have expected, though they did encounter a number of problems, mostly involving stairs. Still, it seemed to bolster John's outlook on things and, for that, Sherlock was grateful. It was good to know that he had not lost another career, even if things were handled a bit differently than they had been before.

Sherlock left more of the actual tracking of the criminals to the Yard. He'd come in to the crime scene, take a look around and maybe talk to a few witnesses if he needed more information. More than he ever had before, Sherlock thought about the danger of what he did. He didn't go places that John couldn't go with him and he made sure to stay out of situations that would get them into more trouble than they could handle. (That being said, his views on what they could handle were still a bit skewed.)

This continued work was probably why it took John a little over three months to have his first breakdown. As it was, the emotional overflow happened during another of his physical therapy sessions. The pain of these sessions were intense and it just went to show how strong John's character was that he hadn't broken down before.

The point of the physical therapy was to stretch him muscles and keep them active. Through the pain, John would try to move his feet or bend his knees, anything to show he might walk again. He'd managed to make some, small motions, but he couldn't stand on his own, even with something to help hold him up. Now, his leg muscles were starting to show serious signs of atrophy from lack of proper use.

John had just tried, once again, to take a step but had ended up falling. He slammed a fist into the ground, tears of frustration and pain leaking down his face. Sherlock would see the shame burning in his eyes at being so helpless, at even now needing someone else to help him up.

"Get up, John. Try again."

Sherlock's voice was gentle, uncharacteristic for the sharp-tongued man, but he'd been doing a lot of uncharacteristic things since his accident. He placed a comforting hand on John's shoulder only to have it shrugged off.

"There isn't much point of that, is there?"

The words sounded foul and bitter. They had no place coming out of John's mouth. Sherlock frowned at his doctor.

"You have to exercise the muscles, John."

The detective said John's name a lot during these sessions, he wasn't quite sure why. Maybe it was to remind him of who he was, even through all the pain.

"They're dying anyway, Sherlock. All I'm doing is delaying the inevitable and giving myself false hope."

"Don't be ridiculous. You're not going to walk again over night. Let's get you walking, then we can start building up those muscles again."

Despite his words, Sherlock knew how much this had to be taking out of John. He wouldn't have been able to last so long. Chances were good that Sherlock would have turned back to drugs to quiet his mind and ended up ODing. The fact that John showed up day after day to go through the same excruciating motions was rather amazing.

He managed to get John into a sitting position again, back leaned up against the wall, when the blonde grabbed his shoulder and stopped his movements. Blue eyes searched his own.

"Why are you still here, Sherlock? You could be off solving crimes and doing what you love. Why are you here?"

Sherlock took a moment to think about the answer. With John's current state, he would need to be careful.

"You're more important than that, John. I will be wherever you need me. Now, come on. Get up. Try again."

And John did.

It was another three months before John took his first step. He fell immediately afterwards, and there were more tears, but the tears were for a different reason. Sherlock laughed, joining John on the floor and the two spent nearly twenty minutes there, just reveling in what had happened. The Sherlock stood and helped John up, one arm stung over his shoulder and they started all over again.

The pain John felt when standing was intense, like thousands of tiny needles being driven into his legs and feet, but Sherlock watched as he pushed through that to make moves most people took for granted. Sherlock marveled at his strength of character, at his ability to move forward. John truly was the most extraordinary man he'd ever met.

The sheer effort John had to put forth in order to just take one step exhausted him. He couldn't manage more than a couple, maybe three, before he had to sit down and rest. Sometimes, he would be so exhausted that he'd fall asleep in his chair within minutes of sitting down. When that happened, Sherlock would prepare a cup of tea and leave it on the side table for him when he woke up.

Slowly, as time wore on, John was able to take more and more steps and they left him less exhausted than they had before. The smile he'd given Sherlock the first time he'd managed a circuit around their living room, with assistance, had been perhaps the most beautiful thing the detective had ever seen. He filed it away in his mind palace with a promise to never delete it, no matter what else he was trying to store.

As John's strength improved, they moved him from the wheelchair onto crutches, his legs kept in special braces that Sherlock had designed and built to give him extra support. It took him more time to move from place to place, but he at least he was able to do it himself. His new freedom meant that he was able to climb the stairs of 221 on his own. They'd sat by with tea and watched as the contractors came to take down the chair lift. Mrs. Hudson even baked her special scones for the occasion.

John had leaned on Sherlock's shoulder while they sat on the couch, the blonde's body warm against the brunette's. Eventually, he'd fallen asleep there, breath puffing against Sherlock's neck until the taller had moved him to lay across his lap. He absently ran his fingers through the blonde's hair, observing him sleep. It did, after all, sound much less creepy when he called it observing instead of watching.

John's features always relaxed in his sleep, erasing so many lines of stress and pain that plagued him during the day. Sometimes Sherlock was even able to imagine that things were as they had been before, that John hadn't gotten into his accident. For John's sake, he wished that were the case. Yet, selfishly, Sherlock was almost glad it had happened, a feeling which brought him endless guilt. He'd never been closer to John than he was now, and John had never needed him like he did now.

Sherlock had long ago accepted his sentiment when it came to his doctor, a sentiment he'd scorned for so long. John had wormed his way into Sherlock life and made himself at home without the detective even realizing what had happened until it was too late. He'd been afraid for so long that John would find something better and move on, but now he didn't have to. John needed Sherlock just as much as Sherlock needed him.

Two and a half years after the accident that had changed their lives, two and half years of pain and struggle, John was able to walk without his crutches. He walked with a cane, strangely reminiscent of when he'd first met Sherlock. Unlike that cane, though, this one was a custom-made, sleek, black number than molded perfectly to the grip of John's hand. Sherlock had it especially crafted for him by some big-time inventor in America, right down to the .380 pistol concealed in the handle.

He'd presented the gift to John exactly two weeks late for Christmas, a holiday he loudly proclaimed not to celebrate. He'd been nervous about it, there being a 47% chance of John being offended and hating the gift. Instead, John had smiled brilliantly and thanked him, then grinned wider upon discovering the gun in the handle. He didn't ask if it was legal, they both already knew the answer.

Now, with John's birthday rolling around, Sherlock had another present planned that could possibly end disastrously. The possibility of it going well, though, far out-weighed the risks. So many things could go wrong…Sherlock would just have to make sure they didn't.

He'd composed a new song for the occasion, keeping it slow and easy. It wouldn't do to have something that was too fast. It was a waltz, too, which would make things easier. He made sure to get John out of the flat while he worked on it, contacting Lestrade and Mike Stamford for assistance there. It was a shame it would have to be played as a recording.

The day of John's birthday, Sherlock dressed in his finest suit, a silky smooth number tailored perfectly to his frame. He wore the purple shirt John liked so much underneath and was careful to avoid any food splatter as he prepared their breakfast for the day. He'd taken to eating with John, with the exception of when a case was on.

John had raised an eyebrow at the suit, but made no comment. He'd long since grown accustomed to Sherlock's oddities. It wasn't until after breakfast, when the detective coaxed him into the living room, conspicuously cleared of furniture, and turned on his recording that John's brown creased in suspicion.

"Sherlock, what's going on?"

The brunette grinned and slipped on arm under John's shoulder to rest on his back while the other gently removed his cane from his hand and tossed it on the pushed-aside couch. He then took John's free hand and held it out from their bodies.

"I thought, for your birthday, you might enjoy a dance. Forgive me for taking the role of the man, but it seemed prudent that I lead."

Slowly, giving the blonde time to adjust and follow, Sherlock began to guide John through the basic steps of a waltz. It was slow, and a bit clumsy, but the grin on John's face made it all worth it. He kept staring down at their feet to watch where he stepped, though, and that simply wouldn't do.

"Eyes up, John. No professional would be caught dead looking at their feet."

John looked up, amusement in his eyes.

"Yes, well, I'm not exactly a professional, am I?"

Sherlock smirked.

"Clearly not."

He began to rotate them out of the basic box step and in a slow circle while still, mostly, in time with the music. His hand slid surreptitiously to John's wrist, feeling his rapid pulse beneath his fingers, almost as rapid as Sherlock's own. But it could still be from exertion, Sherlock had to be sure. His gaze found John's, grey eyes meeting blue. The blonde's pupils were dilated.

The smirk turned into a grin. He was not alone, then.

They danced for a while more, an easy silence stretching between them. By the end of it, John was leaning against Sherlock's chest, eyes closed and utterly exhausted. Their hearts pounded together and Sherlock was loathe to break their contact. He helped John to bed and got him settled. The doctor was out in moments and the detective smiled down at him before pressing a light kiss to his forehead.

"Happy birthday, John."

Things shifted between them, after their dance. It wasn't much, and would have been imperceptible to most, but it was there. Sherlock noticed it immediately. Their touches lingered just a bit longer than necessary. Their gazes catching and holding. They each knew what was going on, but neither wanted to be the first to acknowledge it.

As usual, though, it was John who proved to be the braver one. Sherlock had just finished solving a rather brilliant crime. A man had committed five separate murders to cover up the fact that he had killed his sister for her share of the inheritance. They'd returned to the flat, Sherlock still going on about the elegance of the crimes when John had dropped his cane, braced his back against the wall, and yanked Sherlock towards him by his lapels.

Their lips met forcefully, their teeth clacking rather painfully. John's lips were chapped and dry and Sherlock's were still trying to get out half-formed words. Yet, somehow, it would remain Sherlock's favorite kiss for many years to come.

His hands fell to John's waist, gripping his hips as they fell into a rhythm. He tilted his head to the side, making the angle less awkward. There was no tongue, nothing fancy, but they both were panting when they separated, and Sherlock's mind was nowhere near the case any longer.

John's eyes were half-lidded, and a grin was painted across his face. His head fell forward onto Sherlock's shoulder, that grin now pressing into the genius's shirt.

"Thank you, Sherlock."

The brunette's gaze was soft, even if John couldn't see him.

"I told you, I would be here for you, every step of the way."

A/N: Hope you enjoyed! Please review and tell me what you thought!


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